After flying for about 10 hours, I finally arrive on the other side of the world in Tokyo. Already the culture shock is creeping in, as I’m waded through a see of people waiting to pass yet another security point. Apparently, the Japanese (actually, Asians in general) don’t believe in lines.

The smell is also something that is very distinct. Not only because you’re in a different country, but the people just have very distinguishable odors. The smell while waiting in line with a large group of Japanese, is drastically different than the smell I sensed while waiting for my connecting flight to Manila surrounded by other Filipinos. It makes me wonder if Americans have an aroma. If so, does it smell like cheeseburgers and hope?

My mom told me to look for a guy named Tino who would be holding a sign with my name on it. When I saw him after getting off the plane, it was a bit surreal. I’ve never had anyone hold a sign with my name on it, let alone someone who could easily be one of my many cousins. He passed me on to another guy who took my papers, and we quickly made our way around the huge masses surrounding the customs agents straight to the “Special Assistance” area. With his help, we got through customs faster than you can say “mabuhay”.

After getting my luggage, we went outside and that’s when the culture shock hit me like a speeding jeepney. The humidity, the smog, the crowds of people, the sea of balikbayan boxes… it was all so foreign, yet so familiar. I was relieved to see my mom. My cousin Joey brought the car around, and we headed to the house.

After a big hassle with airline companies and travel agencies, I finally have my ticket back to the US. I’m quite sad about it but also releaved. I really wish I could’ve made it work here in Paris, and I’m quite sure it would’ve been possible if I gave it a go, but I didn’t. After a couple of weeks here, I basically had to make a choice between staying the full 3 months, live on a tight budget, and work my ass off to get a job; or stay only a couple of months, spend like I’m on vacation, and relax. I chose the latter. This decision was made partly due to homesickness, partly due to the language barrier, but mostly due to the fact that I really wanted to relax. Since I moved to Seattle 3 years ago, I’ve been working pretty hard (I always find a little time to party a bit, of course), so it was well worth it to just switch into chill-mode and just enjoy myself for a couple months.

Besides, I know how much y’all miss me, and I missed y’alls too. See you soon.

What can I say about my trip to these two wonderful cities that can’t be said with a little bit of vomit? I mean that in a good way, because I was having such a good time that I had to blow chunks just to convince myself to come back to Paris.

Amsterdam: Left Centraal Station and looked for the nearest coffeeshop. Bought some local goods and made my way to Vondelpark. While awaiting Ryan, I was approached by a strange inebriated but nice enough man. Next night, met up with some TR42 members and proceeded to tear up the city. Purchased cases of beer and went to a nearby park to consume said beers. Urinated multiple times in public, which is quite common. Moved to a nearby bar and had a few rounds. Bought pre-packaged goodies and proceeded to a different park (there’s many of them in Amsterdam). Pretty damn drunk by now, the goodies were lit and passed around. At one point, both were handed to me, and I did not refuse them. In come the sweats and hot flashes, out goes my lunch. After recovery, döner kebab sandwiches were bought and sucked down. Searched for another bar exhaustedly. No luck. Went to Centraal Station and parted ways. Good times.

Köln: Much more relaxed, but still quite fun. Lots of sleep. Lots of beer. More sleep. More beer. Discussed music, film, and current events. Visited local record shops and comic book stores. Washed down tapas with some sangria. Good times.

Last night, my neighbor, Caroline, invited me to a dinner with her friends. Since the dinner was taking place just outside my door, there really wasn’t a way she couldn’t invite me. Score!

Since August is when most Parisians take their vacation, most of them had just returned, and along with two birthdays, there was great cause for celebration. Caroline herself had just returned from singing Tahiti and Los Angeles, Dorothy spent 4 weeks tanning in Vietnam and Camille practiced her Spanish in Mexico. Caroline returned with a lot of souvenirs from Tahiti, one of which was a delicious recipe for a pasta dish with shrimp, pineapple, and coconut milk. Afterwards we had “joyeaux anniversaire” cake and Vietnamese candy courtesy of Dorothy.

Among the group there was a graphic design student, philosophy student, jazz musician, business consultant, international law student, and the equivalent of a well-paid international social worker. At first, they were all kind enough to speak English with me, but after the 3rd bottle of wine was poured, the kindness was replaced with a laidback familiarity that can only be found from young, well-relaxed, well-vacationed, French people.

My legs are aching, my back is sore and I have a pretty noticeable farmer’s tan. However, it was sooooo worth it. Rock en Seine, in case you didn’t read the previous post (shame on you), is an annual 3-day music festival, similar to Bumbershoot but sans all the cheesy hippie arts and crafts booths. I finally got to see Björk, and it was pretty spectacular! It would’ve been even better if the guy in front of me didn’t keep whipping my face with his dreadlock ponytail. Eh, c’est la vie. Here are my highlights:

Arcade Fire
They had a full-sized pipe organ on stage! With 13 members, I can only imagine the size of their tour bus. Maybe a tour dirigible? One of the girls, the lead singer’s wife I think, was all over the stage playing every instrument she could get her hands on, from drums, to pipe organ, to accordion, to this strange stringed instrument with a rotating lever.

The Hives
To be honest, their flavor of rock/punk rock gets old pretty quickly for me. However, their stage presence is fucking gold. The lead singer, Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist, is hee-larious with great quips like, “alright you French people, we are the Hives… c’est fantastique!” And the rhythm guitarist has this crazy way of strumming that made me wonder if he was even playing or not. Pure entertainment.

Mark Ronson
I’ve only heard his second album in one of those listening stations inside music stores, but after seeing him live, with a full band, I’m going back today to cop that shit. What’s better on a summer day than a great horns section and funky bass guitar licks? Answer: using those to cover a Smiths songs, that’s what.

Kings of Leon
I honestly don’t think I really knew what Rock n’ Roll was until I saw these guys live yesterday for the first time. The lead singer, Caleb Followill, said his voice was a little sore, but that didn’t stop him from giving it everything he had. Maybe the shot of Jameson whiskey he drank, after toasting it to the crowd, helped him along. His brother on lead guitar had a cigarette lit almost the entire show and either kept it in his mouth or on the end of his guitar. The drummer was drinking a can of Heineken with a bendy-straw, and the bassist completely pandering to the camera. Before and after their performance, there were sporadic girlish screams coming from backstage. This band is fucking stellar.

I’ve been in Paris for 3 days, and I’m having a blast. I’ve taken many pictures, but don’t have internet access at my apartment yet, so I have to resort to going to an internet café. Soon my little cabbages, you will see the pictures.

So far, it has been an fun learning experience. Here’s what I’ve learned so far:

1. The waiters are rude to everyone, even the French.
2. Before watching a movie, be sure to check if it is the original version with subtitles, otherwise risk not understanding half of the movie.
“: French keyboqrds tqke so;e getting used to.
4. French geeks are as addicted love playing WoW as much as US geeks.
5. In the clubs, there is no last call.
6. It doesn’t smell like pee.
7. At most restaurants, you seat yourself.
8. Coinpurses are commonplace, even for men.
9. They serve gin and tonics in separate glasses, respectively.
10. Bring your own conditioner, because you they don’t sell it… anywhere.

My friend Teri took me to a bar across the street from UNLV called the Freakin’ Frog. When we first walked in, I didn’t think too much of the joint; it seemed like your regular college dive bar. Instead of grabbing a seat at one of the booths or tables, which is what I did upon entering, she brought me up a tall staircase leading to a stained-glass door. The door needed a slight budge to open, and once it did, we walked into a dark room with people sitting at two tables with their eyes affixed to the wall. On the wall was a projection of the surprisingly hilarious Robert Altman sleeper-hit Prarie Home Companion.

As we watched the movie, I couldn’t help but look around the dark room. To my right was a wall with a big list of names, basically a roster. Next to that was another wall that had the logo for The Whiskey Attic. Then behind me, on the other side of the long room, I saw a dimly lit bar with what seemed like all the world’s whiskey arranged and displayed neatly on shelves. In the midst of the darkness, it was almost like a light at the end of a tunnel—it was salvation. I turned around to watch the movie, and to not look like a complete noob, but it was all of a sudden difficult to focus. Luckily Robert Altman spins a great yarn, so I got back into it quite quickly.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to partake of any of the delicacies behind that bar. I did learn, however, that there is some sort of exclusive club that meets there regularly, and that membership is difficult to acquire. According to their websites, they hold events and host parties, but the site hasn’t been updated since 2005. I guess that just adds to the allure of the joint.

I’m no whiskey connoisseur, but with a place like that, I’m sure I could learn very quickly.